


Ljosalflheim

by basketcasewrites



Series: Fictober 2018 [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Elves, Fluff, I live and die for all of them, Multi, References to Norse Religion & Lore, anyway mcu's cancelled i make my own canon now, mentions Loki and the Grandmaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 13:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: In Ljosalflheim, the realm of the Light Elves, a market is held every second Sunday without fail.In an attempt to introduce their boyfriend to more of what exists out of Midgard Thor, Brunnhilde and Heimdall take Bruce on a day trip.(prompt 21 of myfictober prompts list: What do you mean I can't eat this? .... Sooo, not even a little lick?")





	Ljosalflheim

Above and around them, Ljosalflheim rises in all its glory.  
Walls of pearl and ivory; castles of glistening gold to rival that of Asgard.

"Woah—" Bruce murmurs. Shadowed eyes wide as saucers, he drags a stuttered gaze over the sprawling marketplace. Gawps at the squat stalls, the elves peddling their wares.

Thor nudges him, his elbow pokes into Bruce's rib in a way that is nearer to harsh than gentle. Shrugging him off, a huffed "That really hurts" on his lips, Bruce rubs at his side.

"Don't stare," Thor warns.

"What, is there a rule against staring, or something?" Bruce asks. "Is it bad luck? Because I know I don't _look_ like I believe in bad luck, but I really do believe in bad luck."

"No," Brunnhilde says. "It's just rude."

She adjusts the strap of the loose satchel. Seaweed-green, borrowed from a corner of Thor's room and now sitting snugly across her shoulders.

A day trip— an attempt to introduce Bruce to more of the universe, to the worlds existing beyond Midgard and its painful limitations— they chose to discard their armour, at least for the most part.

The flow of Thor's cape matches the flow of Brunnhilde's dress. Light material dances with a sweet breeze, brushes their ankles and the spikes of emerald grass.

They are a rainbow— a show in primary colours.  
The red of Thor's cape that is of a field of scattered rose petals; the blue of Brunnhilde's dress the depthless-clear of an Asgardian ocean; the green of Bruce's much too big sweater that rivals Summer's rich leaves; the orange wrap-around shirt Heimdall had been coerced into wearing, the warmth of an Autumn afternoon.

Unarmoured, unarmed. But, her eye a well-trained one, Brunnhilde spies the sheathed sword strapped and tucked discreetly to Heimdall's side. It matches her own, hidden beneath her dress.

"We should get going," Heimdall directs, "There's some things I need to grab before the day is done. Some people I need to see."

Thor and Bruce, easily interested, they perk in the way of puppies being introduced to a new toy. Too easily excited, if Brunnhilde were asked. "What things?" Thor asks. "What people?" Bruce follows.

An easy smile curves Heimdall's lips. A lazy rise an fall of his shoulders.

Brunn shakes her head at them. The roll of her eyes is fond, without venom. "Let's go," she urges, striding ahead of them and into the bustle of the marketplace, "Heim's not the only one with things to buy."

A large tent, easily the size of three brought together, is a storm of chiming bells and sharp whistles.  
Surrounded by an army of creatures, Brunnhilde absently wonders how anything can be heard over the crowd's excited chattering.

Long hair, parted down the middle, and falling in front of honey eyes, an olive-skinned elf halts Brunnhilde. They are easily a head taller than the four, undeniably more majestic. "A scarf for the miss. Woven of spun gold." They hold out a length of material, their voice something liquid-smooth. "Made by Leprechauns."

" _Ooh_ ," Bruce voices, reaching to touch.

"We don't approve of slave labour." Heimdall says, taking ahold of Bruce's hand and pulling it away.

The elf's eyes flashes, a tight frown gathers their mouth into an upset line. Hardness edges into their voice, pushes away the gentleness of their tune. "I'm a _ljósálfar_ , and I cannot lie. We do not approve of slave labour either, and the Leprechauns we employ are employed fairly."

They _tsk._ Push aside Brunnhilde and past Heimdall, lose themselves in the reaches of the crowd.

"Well." Bruce raises his hands in a show of surrender, his word is an exhaled utterance.

"That went well," Thor ends.

The market is large, standing in the kingdom's square it stretches almost as far as the eye can see.  
They move deeper in, beyond the large family of elves selling their chiming-singing handmade wares.

She imagines what they look like— sometimes a patched together square of people, walking in pairs of two; sometimes a snake, hands clasped and snaking through the crowd.  
Not as strange as the hulking orcs flirting with the palm-sized pixies flitting over their cakes, or the trolls baking in the sun and loudly complaining, or the small group of lion-headed men trying on sneakers.  
Not as strange as those creatures, but nonetheless different.

Thor and Heimdall are warm and constant presences on either side of Brunnhilde. The three of them, scarred from battles and years of sword hilts digging into palms, clasp calloused hands in firm holds.

Bruce stays close. Sticking to Thor's side, his chatter is incessant.  
For all his years of age and experience, Bruce is so young to them. So new. He sees the realms through fresh eyes, takes in magic with an enthralled scientist's mind.

Enchanting. Brunnhilde meets Thor's gaze that overflows with a love he would never dare to hide, finds Heimdall's cautious sight that holds an immeasurable degrees of care for all of them.  
For a second, she wonders what her eyes say to them, whether they see her love and trust and unbound happiness.

Bruce inhales sharply. He drops distracted slaps on Thor's arm, a series of one after the other, drawing their attention to a stall overflowing with books.

A shake of her head. Brunnhilde shares a smile with Thor, with Heimdall.

°

"Your sister's been around," Far, a new friend of Brunnhilde's, tells Thor. She smells of the candles she makes and sells— a lavender and vanilla and clove amalgam, competing with other more subtle and unfamiliar scents. "Been around a lot lately."

Thor quirks an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Loki."

"Oh, they have, have they?" Thor narrows his eyes, an unimpressed smirk playing on his lips.

These sharp blades of grass tickle Brunnhilde's toes, uncovered in her strappy white sandals. She sniffs at a lemon-lavendar candle. "Didn't Loki say they were spending the week in Sakaar." Not a question, more a distracted statement.

"Yeah—" Far agrees. "Try this one, it's _ocean's breeze_. Yeah, she and the Grandmaster have been seen around Ljosalflheim a lot lately. She stopped by in the morning actually— it's their anniversary soon, I think."

" _They_ ," Thor corrects absently, a habit he has cultivated over years. He shrugs. Loki does whatever they want to do, they always have.

Brunnhilde buys the lemon-lavendar candle, asks for it to be packeted. Watching the interaction, she knows she wouldn't be too surprised if Far were to reveal herself as the mischief-loving god.

Arms bundled around a brown paper bag stacked to the top with thick textbooks, Bruce beams and walks their way. Beside him Heimdall carries another paper bag, smaller and not as full.

"—and he was eaten on Halloween." Heimdall is saying. His anecdote, whatever it is, colours Bruce's face a shade of bright pink.

"C'mon," Brunnhilde says to Thor, gesturing at Bruce and Heimdall with a nod of her head. "It's getting late. We should round up and get going." The last bit she says as they near the two other men.

"The Vídbláin's Royal Suite is vacant," Heimdall lets them know, "I've checked."

Bruce sniffs at the air. It is near to the fall of dusk, and the thinning crowd brings the smell of Elven  food on the wind. "Maybe," he says, before they can come to any sort of decision, "We can get dinner first."

°

Thor frees Bruce from having to carry the bag. "I'm stronger than you," Bruce argues, "I can carry my own books."

"I don't care." Thor's utterance is steady and assured, he takes the package and tucks it under his arm.

The last of the stragglers, the four of them gather in front of a near food stall. Fresh pies and soft buns sit on stacked cupcake racks, stuffed breads and pastries fill plates.

Heimdall chatters easily with the Elven couple— one tall with large grey eyes, the other with short and curly hair hanging over most of his face.

"Sprouts," Brunn says under her breath, reading aloud from the little card used to label the herb dish.

It is the only dish on the table not accompanied by a pastry of some kind. Alone, conspicuous, with a companion sign neither of them are able to read. Bruce and her share a confused glance, brows furrowed and gathering their foreheads into forests of creases.

Bruce shrugs. "I mean, what's the worst that could possibly happen? I get a stomach ache?" he reasons. "The other guy sorts everything out anyway... And I'm _starving_."

Arranged in compact blocks, Bruce reaches for the green square nearest to him. He brings it to his nose, inhales. Grins.

"What are you _doing?"_ Heimdall questions a moment before Bryce takes a bite, the caps of his teeth grazing the top of the herb square. This is the closest to a yell Brunnhilde and Bruce have heard from him. It startles them. "Don't eat that! Bruce, you can't eat that."

"What do you mean I can't eat this?" he holds the square, small enough to fit in his palm, to his eye.

Heimdall sighs, pulling the breath from the pit of his stomach and the sink of his lungs as he wrenches the herb dish from Bruce's fingers. "This is a _dökkálfar_ recipe. A _dark elf_ recipe. It will kill a human in a few seconds."

Bruce eyes it critically. "But it smells so good _and,_ more importantly, if I don't eat anything soon I think I'll faint."

"No." A steady insistence. Heimdall pops the herb square into his mouth. At Brunnhilde's silent nod, he pops one into hers.

" _Oh_ ," Brunn murmurs on a low sigh, "This is _good_. Where's Thor, he's gotta have some of this?"

" _So..._ " Bruce stretches the word into a train of syllables it does not have. "Not even a little lick?"

Heimdall and Brunnhilde shake their heads at the same time.

Bruce could tell them all he wanted— that he did not even get sick, that Hulk wouldn't actually let him die— but neither Brunn not Heimdall were willing to take the chance.  
They locked him in their hold and made to steer Bruce away from the stall, the nice middle-aged couple who sold questionable dark elf food.

"They heard we were in Ljosalflheim." Thor appears at Brunnhilde's side as if from out of the thin air, speaks as if continuing a conversation already begun.

"Who?" Bruce and Brunnhilde ask, as one incredulous being.

Heimdall answers. "Loki and the Grandmaster."

"Far wasn't joking around," Thor continues, with a raise and dip of his head acknowledging and agreeing with Heimdall. "There's a feast and everything."

The mere mention of food starts a grumble in Bruce's stomach.

They stop in a clearing, as near to deserted as they can hope for. Gather in a circle to make a quick decision.

"They have actual dinner." Bruce's first point of argument.

"It's the Grandmaster." Brunnhilde offers, arms crossed over her chest.

Thor's voice lowered is all slow dripping honey and grumbles of thunder. "There's still that Royal Suite you mentioned, Heimdall. We can spend the night."

"I've heard the Elves make an amazing chocolate cream," Brunn adds, a sudden mischievous smirk now lighting upon her face.

Heimdall coughs into the curl of his fist. Mutters, "They _are_ very skilled creators."

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shuriidyke)


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